Welcome to the communion of night—
where the trucks of hell slide mercifully past,
without stopping to pick me up,
and the authorities run their quiet offices,
like the Stasi, under cover of the gloom.
The old cast returns on cue:
the recalcitrant son, the wayward spouse,
creeping on stage,
nodding to one another—
renewing their nightly acquaintance.
Next, a voice drifts back to me from earlier in the day:
“Can you turn down your radio? It’s very loud.”
I hadn’t realised—it was hidden behind curtains,
blackout linings, thick as denial.
Besides, this building is a morgue even before evening starts breathing.
“Think of now, not the past or the tableaux will crush you flat” the prompt suggests.
I yearn for a warm, clammy hand to squeeze,
just to check the life-force still runs.
Mouth yawns, craving oxygen,
But even so my lungs crease with coughs,
gasping as life insists on not being denied
I cradle my head for some comfort—
but my hair has risen in peaks and troughs,
thinning, offering less protection each time from the ghouls that pace the room.
The snug cocoon of inflammable teddy sheets might combust
with my fevered roaming (although this is less ague, than age).
The clock spies me back, whispering
“there’s no point now - morning is already rehearsing”.
So I rise, gather myself, dump my thoughts onto paper,
locking them in a cell where I can keep an eye on them,
And hope they won’t hurt me again - at least before daylight.
And when I re-read my scribbling, something grows quieter in the din.
The dog pads in, head tilted.
Is he judging my sanity or offering quiet support?
While the kitchen’s tiny pink clock ticks away like Big Ben
My writing light throws up mountains of shadow
And the Sansevieria lays its Matterhorn pinnacles upon the wall.
Who knows what further horrors hide in their folds?
Not for the first time, something nibbles, and tugs
urging me back to the pan for a brief interlude.
Somewhere another cistern empties, refills.
And the building creaks, in its half-life,
While the dog mutters - another interruption to his hard-won sleep.
I wonder … is this the start or the end of madness?
Have I underestimated the progress of the ghost train?
Have we already stopped more times than I’d thought?
(Night travel confuses me — I’ve missed stations before).
I scratch at my eyes pricking with unslept hours, bargaining
When will Morpheus open up his warm arms to me?
And how will I know when the demons have gone?
“You probably won’t…
Madness, they say, is repeating the same night over and over
and expecting rest to arrive, by a different route”
© adewils 2026
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